


American Mutant Story

by glanmire



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glanmire/pseuds/glanmire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik, Charles, Hank, Pietro and Wanda have to move in together and act normal, to evade the CIA. That's easier said than done, especially when they've moved into the Murder House, and there's a ghost named Tate who looks just like Pietro floating around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	American Mutant Story

 

“There’s been a spot of difficultly, admittedly,” Charles says, which from what Hank can surmise, is an understatement.Xavier’s school for gifted youngsters has abruptly closed its doors, and the students are being sent home with no return date, due to ‘refurbishments’. 

Hank waits patiently. Charles sighs. “Okay, it’s a dreadfully long story, I’ll spare you the brunt of it, but basically Erik and I garnered some attention at the CIA and it seems best to keep a low-profile for the immediate future.” 

Erik says nothing but just stares at Hank, daring him to ask for more details. 

Hank analyses what Charles said for a moment, and then runs a hand through his fur. 

“So basically you broke into the CIA, didn’t you?” 

The guilty silence that ensues confirms that. 

“Why?” he asks, and Erik presses his lips together, which on anyone else, would be a pout. 

Hank tries again. “Can’t you just mind-wipe them Professor? Or at least make them believe you’re not a threat to them?” 

“Yes, well that was the original failsafe Hank, but unfortunately they managed to obtain Erik’s helmet in the struggle, and now know exactly how to resist my mutation.” 

Erik’s pout grows even more obvious. Hank knows Erik loves his helmet. 

“So the plan is… you’re going into hiding?” Hank asks. 

Charles sighs. “Yes. We’ll have to take Pietro and Wanda with us too, for their safety, as the CIA will otherwise undoubtedly use them as leverage over Erik.” 

Hank doesn’t know how effective using Erik’s children would be on Erik. Magneto seemed like the kind of guy who would say ‘Fine, kill the hostages. Now you have no hold over me.’ 

“Right, well I’ll see you both when all this gets sorted out,” he says offhandedly. 

“No,” Erik says, and he’s smiling now.“No, you’re coming with us. For your _safety_.” He emphasises the last word and Hank suddenly feels cold, despite his fur. He really thinks he’d be safer facing the wrath of the CIA than living in hiding with Charles, Erik, and the twins, but it doesn’t seem like he has a choice. He never gets a choice in these things. 

“I’ll go pack,” he manages, and leaves them to their plotting. 

 

-

 

“We’ll have to stay in the house as much as possible.” 

“It’s very Anne Frank-esque,” Wanda says, and then catches herself. “Is that offensive dad?” 

Erik looks back at her in the rear-view mirror. “I don’t think so.” 

“Okay,” she says. Her hair is green today, and he’s deciding whether he should comment on it. It’s very anti-establishment, and she probably thinks it gives her an edge. Erik thinks people earn their edges, that it’s character that makes you strong, or different, not the colour of your hair, but teenagers are teenagers. 

Hank sits beside her, hunched, trying to make himself smaller to fit in the car. He’s blue. Pietro sits beside him, with his grey hair. 

Erik suddenly wonders why everyone has such strange hair. Ororo has white hair, and she’s only a child. He glances up at the mirror. At least he doesn’t have purple hair or something. 

Pietro is annoyed because he wanted to run ahead and meet them there, but Charles had insisted on not flaunting their powers. 

Erik is driving and Charles is humming along to the radio. It’s mildly pleasant, though Charles doesn’t push his luck by outright singing along. Pietro does sing along, and that’s hideous enough. It’s his punishment on them for not letting him run ahead Erik supposes.

 

The humming cuts out all at once. Erik glances at him. When the canaries stopped singing in the mines it was a sign of danger, and Erik fears this is no different.  
“Everything alright Charles?” he asks casually. 

“Pull over Erik, would you?” Charles replies, rubbing his temples. 

“We’re here anyway,” Erik says, and he wants to touch Charles’ hand, just lightly, but there’s people in the back, and anyway, that’s not the kind of thing Erik does.  
“Well?” Erik asks after a moment. Everyone else is totally quiet, waiting. 

“The house,” Charles says, frowning. “That house is haunted.” 

“And you would know.”

“I’m reading the minds of several ghosts right night Erik, and most of them are not happy campers.” 

“Haunted?” Wanda says, a touch of excitement in her tone. 

“Why did you get us a haunted house Erik?” Charles says sadly. 

“It was at an exceedingly low price and still lived up to your high standards,” Erik says defensively. “I’m dreadfully sorry for the inconvenience.” 

Charles lolls his head over and winks at him. “Nothing to be done for it now. Well, it’s only temporary.” 

They pile out of the car - Charles making use of the ramp Erik installed just for him- and trudge up the drive. Charles’ wheelchair is motorised, so there’s no need for Erik to place his hands on it, but he does anyway, feels the hum of the metal under his palms, and feels something like contentment course through him. 

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” Charles is saying when a vicious looking elderly woman exits the house, frowning at them. 

“I’m Constance,” she says without preamble. “Are you the new gays?” she asks, presumably rhetorically, because she continues without pause, “The last pair we had here were bad enough, and oh look, you’re a cripple too? It just won’t do. This house suits a stronger breed of man. You won’t last here.” She waves a hand as if to shoo them away.

Erik’s grip on the wheelchair is so tight he can feel his hands melding the metal around him, but that’s less to do with his brute strength and more to do with his power. He doesn’t speak. The others are hesitant around him, waiting for him to strangle her by her necklace or impale her or whatever, but he doesn’t. He just slowly drives his fingers deep into the handles of Charles’ chair. 

 

Charles speaks, eventually. “Hello,” he says, cooly. “I’m Charles, this is my husband, Erik, and our adopted children.” 

He must be projecting right now, Erik realises, making Hank look normal, or the woman would have surely commented on it. 

Constance frowns at Charles. “If you’re married, where are your rings?” 

Charles blinks and looks helplessly at Erik - Charles is terrible at improvisation, Erik still remembers the fiasco at the Pentagon-so Erik steps forward and forces some sort of a smile onto his face.  
“We were forced to pawn the rings off when I lost my job. It’s been difficult choosing new ones, the old ones were just so precious to us.” 

He’s found over the years that admitting to economic difficulty usually shuts people up. Charles glances back at him - _did you just make a Lord of the Rings joke Erik, seriously -_ but Erik is staring the woman down, hoping she’ll leave them be.

Constance smiles then, a smile as false as her nails. “Well, go on in there boys, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

Wanda squints at her and inconspicuously wiggles her fingers, and Constance trips slightly, and then steadies herself. Her hairdo has fallen offside, but no-one says a word. Pietro sarcastically waves goodbye to her as she leaves, muttering to herself. 

“Wanda,” Erik chastises, and she smirks at him. 

“I can’t control it,” she says, all innocence, and he raises an eyebrow. 

“You’re getting better at it,” Hank says appreciatively and Wanda smiles at him. Erik gets a sudden, terrible thought. They’re not flirting, are they? No, surely not. Hank wouldn’t dare. 

“Erik?” Charles asks, and Erik realises between Constance and Hank he’s somehow subconsciously twisted the spikes in Charles’ wheels all out of shape. He straightens them and levitates Charles and the chair over the small step on the threshold. 

“That’s not symbolic at all,” Pietro calls after them, and Erik ignores him. 

 

-

 

It doesn’t take Pietro long to explore the house. Like, a second. Less. It’s creepy as fuck, but in a fascinating way. 

“Tate? What have you done to your hair?” a girl asks him, appearing. Okay, people do not just sneak up on Pietro, ever, so he guesses she’s one of the ghosts that the Prof warned him about. She doesn’t look too dead though - no signs of zombification, which is good. 

“Nah, I’m Pietro,” he says, flicking over beside her. 

Her eyes widen, just a little, like she’s seen a lot of shit but can still be impressed. 

“Pietro?” she asks softly. “How did you do that?” 

“Mutation. Do you have ghostly powers?” 

“I can disappear I guess. That’s really it. Violet by the way.” 

“Hey Violet. How did you die?” 

“Killed myself. How ironic is it that now I have to live forever?” 

“That does suck,” he says. “You hungry?” 

“Nah,” she says, and he gets an apple and comes back. 

“So who’s Tate?” he asks, munching into the apple, spinning it like his hand is a power drill, twisting. He goes down to the core then chucks it away. 

“Tate’s my ex. I guess you’re his doppelgänger.” 

“Cool,” Pietro says. “But I already have a twin. She’s a girl though. I guess an identical one could be useful.” 

 

-

 

“Wanda?” 

Hank knocks on her door, feeling foolish. The door opens of its own accord, though when he gets inside he sees her making a swiping motion. 

“Hiya Hank,” she says. She’s wearing a casual dress and gold Doc Martens. 

“So what, you’re gold and Pietro’s silver, huh?” he asks, gesturing. 

She smiles. “Well Pietro’s actually gone and called himself after mercury, but yeah, I guess it’s the general colour scheme. You know my family. If it’s not metallic, it’s no good.” 

Hank smiles too, and then can’t think of a single thing to say. 

“Did you want something Hank?” she says after a moment. 

“Oh, erm, yeah. You know your powers?” he says. 

“Yes.” 

“Well, could you possibly make a probability where the CIA isn’t out to get us?” 

She regards him for a moment, and then shakes her head. “Should’ve attended your school I guess. I don’t have too much control over all this.” She flips her palms and looks at them critically. “I mainly do little stuff, like hexes.” 

“Hexes?” he repeats dumbly. 

“Yeah, well that’s what I like to think of them as. Basically bad luck stuff. Like making that witch trip.” 

“Hey, Constance isn’t the one casting hexes here,” he says, and she laughs. 

“You’re right, I should call myself Witch, or something like that. I’ve got green hair, not the skin though.” 

“So you can’t like, do nice things?” 

She shakes her head. “Guess it’s not just my style. Look at dad. He could be building bridges- literally and figuratively I guess- but he doesn’t.” 

“Don’t use your dad for inspiration,” he says, harsher than he meant to. 

“Don’t worry Hank. Sure I’m wearing boots, but that doesn’t mean I’m descending into anarchy just yet.” She stops for a moment. “Think you could give me a few lessons though?” 

“Me?” he asks incredulously. “Shouldn’t the Prof do that?” 

“I know you’re smart Hank,. You don’t always have to defer to Charles,” she says. “I want you to do it.” 

“Okay,” he says quickly. “I’ll do some research and get back to you.” 

“Good,” she says and slips on her headphones and Hank realises he’s been dismissed. He slips out of the room and shuts the door. There’s a feeling in the pit of his stomach that he doesn’t want to analyse, and he breathes out all at once. That went well. It did. She didn’t hex him at least. It’s a start - though of what, he doesn’t quite know. 

 

 -

 

Charles and Erik are exploring the house, though there’s limited access for Charles, all things considered, when Erik sees someone by the window. 

“Pietro?” he asks, stupidly, because unless Pietro has dyed his hair and for some reason dipped it in grease, it’s not him.

The boy turns. He’s wearing a ghastly yellow sweater, nothing like what Pietro would wear, but otherwise, it’s his son. 

“Tate,” the not-Pietro person corrects, staring at them. “What happened your legs man?” he asks Charles. 

Charles ignores the question. “Erik-”

“They look nothing alike,” Erik says quietly. 

“They could be twins,” Charles says, like he’s in awe. “Except the hair of course, but still, look at him.” 

Tate scowls at them. “What are you muttering about?” 

Erik scowls back at this teenager who is not his son, absolutely not, no way in hell does he have another goddamn child, it’s a coincidence, nothing more.“Shoo,” he says when Tate looks like he’s not leaving. Then he pauses. “What the hell are you doing in our house anyway kid?” 

“He’s a ghost Erik,” Charles says softly, sadly. 

The kid steps forward. “How do you know that?” 

Erik is ready to snap back, something about shutting up, but Charles says inside his head _Tate’s dangerous,_ and Erik restrains himself. 

Charles says simply, “I’m a telepath.” 

Tate steps forward, eager, his lank hair in his eyes. “You gotta read Violet’s mind so. You have to tell me what she wants.”  

Charles shakes his head sadly. “She just wants time Tate.” 

Tate smiles, and it looks odd on his sallow face. 

“I’ve got time,” he mutters, walking past them like they’re the ghosts here, not him. “I’ve got all the time she needs.” 

 

- 

“Let’s get drunk,” Wanda said, bursting into Hank’s room and flopping onto his bed. 

“Okay?” he says, though it’s a question, not a response the way he says it. 

She smiles easily at him. “Must take a lot of alcohol to have an effect on you.” 

He shrugs, feeling embarrassed by her gaze on him. “More than normal people I guess.” 

 

Pietro darts into the room, mumbling about doppelgängers, but Hank is watching Wanda pull a litre of vodka from her bag with a grin and ignores him. 

“Pietro can always run down and get us some more if we need it,” she says casually, and Hank feels a jolt of almost-fear. That’s surely going to be enough between them? 

Pietro rustles up some orange juice from the kitchen, and the combination 

really isn’t so bad, though it does taste like what permanent marker smells like. 

 

Halfway down the bottle, there’s a knock on the door, and a girl pokes her head in. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Can I come in?” 

Pietro reaches over to the bed and throws a pillow on the floor for her to sit on. “This is Violet,” he explains. “She’s cool.” 

“She’s also dead,” Wanda says, not unkindly. 

“So what?” Violet shoots back. “It’s talk to you guys or sit in the basement alone. I’m _so_ sorry for imposing.” She turns to leave and Pietro zooms over beside her. 

“No biggie,” he says. “You’re dead. It happens. Have some vodka.” 

She does, and Hank thinks she’s cool, but a little young for him. Pietro seems fascinated by her though, but Pietro is like a magpie; shiny things catch his attention momentarily, like the mutant guy who’d only stayed a week who could make you hallucinate crazy stuff, or learning to drive, or minding baby Kurt. Things like that enthralled Pietro short-term, but he was easily bored. Violet was evidently going to be this week’s entertainment for him. 

 

-

 

“Fancy a glass of wine Erik?” Charles calls from the kitchen. 

“Several glasses,” Erik replies. It’s been a long day. 

Charles rolls back in, the bottle and glasses on his lap and a grin on his face. Erik lounges on the couch, absentmindedly flicking through the tv channels. He doesn’t watch this stuff; he has no idea what constitutes as something acceptable, even enjoyable to watch with Charles. 

Charles is by the couch now, and Erik wordlessly slides his hands under Charles’ arms and lifts him onto the couch. Charles rearranges his legs so that they’re on Erik’s belly. 

“Hey,” he protests, and Charles smiles at him. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I _would_ move them, but-” 

Erik lightly hits Charles with a pillow, and then they both cough. 

“A touch dusty,” Charles manages. “Let’s refrain from a pillow fight.” He opens the wine and pours them each a decent amount. 

“What kind of telly do you like?” Erik asks. Not a rom-com, no thank you. Charles hates medical dramas. A holocaust documentary, now that he could do without. 

Now there’s a man and woman kissing onscreen. It looks like a dull affair. Erik turns off the telly. 

“Did you pack a chessboard?” he asks. 

“Of course,” Charles says, “but I’m comfortable right here.” 

Erik is too, though he shouldn’t be, not in a strange house, _hiding_ instead of facing his enemies, but he is. Charles’ legs are a comforting weight on his stomach, and he idly traces patterns into Charles’ foot with his finger. He won’t be caught. It’s not like Charles can feel it, after all. 

 

-

 

“Woah woah woah,” Wanda says. “You slept with a ghost? And you _knew_ he was a ghost?” 

Violet frowns. “So? You’re planning on fucking the blue-badger guy, as if you can talk.” 

Wanda’s eyes narrow and then holy shit Violet’s hair is on fire and Violet’s screaming and Hank is running for the bathroom, jesus there has to be a bucket somewhere, anything. He grabs a towel and shoves it under the tap and then sprints back into the bedroom, but the fire’s already out. Pietro shrugs as if to say _better reflexes man._

There’s a long, cold moment after that. 

“I’m sorry,” Wanda says flatly. “Sometimes I can’t control it.” 

Violet breathes raggedly for another few seconds, and then composes herself. “It’s fine. It’s not like you could do damage anyway, I’m already dead. I’m going to go though?” 

She doesn’t even walk out of the room. She just disappears. 

 

-

Tate’s outside the room. They tried to burn Violet. That _witch_ should be the one burning, not Violet. 

His hands are shaking. He’s going to kill that green-haired freak for what she did. 

 


End file.
